


romantic songs about adventurous fucking (but my body's telling me yes)

by llassah



Series: Knocked up and Alpha [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Bottom Derek Hale, Dirty Talk, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Post 3a, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek comes back to Beacon Hills for a number of reasons. The most important one, though, is the result of a one night stand in Vegas. He's knocked up and Alpha, and Cora won't stop playing Papa Don't Preach whenever she gets to pick the music in the car. This shit just keeps happening to him.</p><p>Or, in which Derek gets the D, Stiles gets the D, then Derek gets Stiles's D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	romantic songs about adventurous fucking (but my body's telling me yes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drunktuesdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/gifts).



> This fic is because of, and dedicated to drunktuesdaze. The main idea comes from here http://drunktuesdaze.tumblr.com/post/60804182895, and from her continued dedication to mpreg, male lactation and general weird body stuff. I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not.

In the end, the thing that brings him back to Beacon Hills is a combination of coincidence, magical fuckery (Stiles’s phrase. He’s never telling him he’s adopted it) and the general yearning to settle once more. He drifts back towards California one day without too much urgency, and Cora just shrugs, accepts the change in direction. He has reasons, though. Maybe they both do, but his are…well.

There’s a bar fight in a dive bar that ends with him accidentally killing an alpha. Honestly accidentally. He had no idea that pool cues could even do that to throats. Then, there’s a five minute drunken voicemail from Stiles which seems to be mainly about a carnivorous unicorn and a sworn vow on the claws of Wolverine to lose his virginity before he’s tied to a tree and almost has his lung punctured again because he keeps getting used as bait. Somewhere in the rambling, there’s an ‘I miss you’ that’s quiet and sincere, and, well. Stiles is Stiles. It’s a pull, a reason.

(A week after the voicemail, he gets a picture message. The attached text reads ‘Peter’s getting weird again’. The picture’s of a large cake with ‘Congratulations on getting the D!’ written in copperplate icing, with a cherry on top. He assumes Stiles managed to uphold the sacred power of adamantium, or whatever. It’s a very neat icing job.)

Then, as he struggles with his control in territories that belong to other packs, trying not to attract any attention, he feels a new growth in the bonds that tie him to home, two twin shoots of life that have him dialling Stiles’s number with clawed fingers before he can even think. Stiles answers on the second ring.

“So, Peter’s raising the dead now.”

He can’t even make it a question. Stiles’s laugh is slightly strangled. “Told you he was getting weird.”

“Yeah. Huh.”

“Wait, you felt it?”

“I’m coming back now,” he says, ends the call before Stiles can ask anything else. He’s full on grinning when he turns to Cora in the car. “They’re back,” he says, and Cora doesn’t even have to ask who. He lets her choose the music for the next six hours and they keep facing forward so they don’t feel self-conscious about smiling so much.

The thing that really propels him back home, though, happened a month before the barfight, in Vegas of all places. Cora likes Vegas. She’s off cheating at poker for fun, wearing a dress he has to struggle not to growl about, so Derek has a night to himself. He just drifts, follows his feet. Vegas isn’t any pack’s territory. It’s too much of a transitory place for that, and any supernatural turf wars tend to get the mafia and the feds a little bit too interested in the post mortem reports. There are other packs milling around, but no defensible territory. Derek will love it for about a week, if previous visits are anything to go by, then start growling at anything that moves, choose a tiny motel room as his territory and spend a few weeks completely feral, shredding the sheets and fortifying his den, marking his patch in a way that is enough to get a lifetime ban from the whole motel chain. He’s not proud of that particular month. At the moment, though, he’s calm and relaxed, with nothing to defend except Cora.

He follows his feet to a bar, settles down with his back to the wall and waits. It’s been a while since he’s done this, but he sits with his legs splayed, waits for someone to take the bait, fingers idly tapping against the neck of his bottle of beer. It takes five minutes, which is a record. The name the man gives is Kevin. Derek almost calls himself Miguel, changes it to Mike at the last second and wants to kick himself for a few moments. They don’t bother with much talking after that. There’s an alley by the next bar and he lets Kevin press him against the bricks, kiss him, spin him around and bite the side of his neck. This part always feels taboo, so wrong to yield to a human, but it makes him whine high in his throat, to undo his jeans and pull them down so they’re under his ass, give in to that desperate, dirty need.

Kevin keeps him pinned against the wall, fingers blunt and thick in his ass, slick with lube, and he lets himself be pushed and pressed, to give up his power and strength, because he could rip this human’s spine out easy as a knife through butter, but instead he pants against the bricks as Kevin gives him a reach-around, teeth blunt on the meat of his shoulder. He comes onto the bricks, some of it landing on his shoes as he breathes in the smell of beer, sweat, piss and spunk. A few more thrusts and Kevin’s done, coming with a grunt inside him then kissing the side of Derek’s head as he withdraws, zips himself up and leaves Derek with his pants down, come slipping down his thighs. Hot desert breeze mixes with the smell of air conditioning, and he smiles to himself, feeling open and contented, just existing in that moment.

He showers twice when he gets back to the motel. Cora still looks unimpressed with him as she spreads her winnings out onto the bed. It’s a lot of money. Feels like they could go anywhere. The next day, they get back on the road.

He thinks he’s been poisoned by wolfsbane the first time he’s sick in the morning, is confused when it isn’t black. Pissing feels weird, too, but he shrugs it off, just assumes it’s a side effect, a new strain of wolfsbane. It’s not the first time he’s been poisoned, won’t be the last. Other things happen to his body too, but he’s all over the place with the increase in strength and power, so it doesn’t really register as something to think about. Cora notices first. He’s not sure when, but she spends an entire day playing Papa Don’t Preach, as performed by various artists, before she tells him, and even then it’s because he’s making claw marks in the steering wheel and growling pretty much non-stop. She makes him pull over at a truckstop, gets out of the car and leans against a picnic bench, one leg bent up, facing into the hot desert breeze. “You’re pregnant,” she says as he gets out of the car.

“Huh,” he says, inhales the scent of gasoline and fried food, underlaid with piss and unwashed male. Pregnant. He puts a hand absently to his belly, turns his attention inwards. There’s a little whisper, a spark of potential there. Changes. Combined with the alpha change, his body must be all over the place. “Huh,” he says again, a quiet, pleased sound.

“You’re…very calm,” Cora starts, coming over and leaning into him.

“I think you broke my spirit with bad cover versions. No, I…this is good. It feels good, right?”

He puts his arm around her and they stand with the wind in their faces. Alpha and pregnant. It sounds like a shitty reality show, something Stiles would watch. With popcorn.

Stiles, when he find out, has a minor fit trying to work out which part of this whole thing to be an asshole about. He gets the abuse in increments:

“Did someone give you the D? Was it tender? Were there candles? Was there Boyz II Men playing?”

“Stiles, for— hang on, they’re before your time.”

“90s R & B was the best era for songs about gentle yet adventurous fucking. I’m a connoisseur. And that was the part you focussed on? Really?”

And

“So how’s it gonna, you know, come out?”

“Stiles, we’re eating.”

“Yeah, okay Erica, I’ve seen you rip apart a squirrel. C’mon, is it gonna be an ass delivery?”

Cora, all the time maintaining eye contact with Stiles, claws her right hand and makes a slow slashing motion, grins, showing all her teeth. Stiles gulps, doesn’t talk for the rest of the meal.

And

“Wait, but— was it your first time getting the D?”

“ _Will you stop calling it that._ Also, Jesus, it’s two in the morning, why are you even here.”

“I missed you. Making up for lost time. And hey, it’s an elegant way of putting it. So was it?”

“No. It wasn’t. In New York, I used to. I don’t know why it didn’t happen before.”

Stiles frowns, looks up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head. They’re lying side by side on Derek’s bed, and it should feel weird, but it doesn’t. He settles in for a journey through Stiles’s brain. In between impromptu renditions of increasingly obscure songs about fucking, Stiles decides that the reason for it happening now is that Derek’s body thought it was safe to breed for the first time since…well, Kate.

“You weren’t fighting, weren’t in danger. You felt safe and happy, even before the whole Frankenpeter thing so, boom! Knocked up and Alpha—”

“I— I had a better title for –No. Never mind.”

And

“So, wait. Are you gonna get, like, boobs? You’ll have to keep shaving your rack, not that I mind hairy women, in fact I kind of dig it, it feels—”

“Jesus, I’d forgotten what you were like,” he says, not as angry as he’d like to be. Stiles grins at him.

“I’m a man of the world now,” Stiles nods wisely. It’s…sort of true. He’s still got more energy than his fragile shell can contain, but he’s sharper, more grim. He’s bargained, sacrificed, gathered together all the tatters of magic he can find and used them, sometimes cruelly, always necessarily. He doesn’t sleep much.

(Stiles actually lost his virginity two towns over, in a motel, to three people, two of whom were related. Closer than cousins is all Stiles will say on the matter. He’s thorough, Derek gives him that.)

Even with Stiles being more Stiles than he remembers, Beacon Hills feels, for once, like the only place he should be. He feels no pull other than that homing instinct that tells him to settle down, to dig deep and stay still. Peter, in between resurrection spells and baking intrusive cakes, managed to get himself recognised as a long lost Hale cousin and heir to the Hale property, claimed his own life insurance money from his own bank account and blackmailed the county planning office into letting him rebuild the house. With an added hot tub. He really wonders sometimes. No one knows quite where Peter is right now, but Derek’s got a room, and an implausibly big bed which he’s put right in the corner, with…well, he’s mainly working on instinct at this point. He’s got pillowcases he…took from Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Cora, Scott and Stiles’s beds, a few appropriated items of clothing, blankets, duvets and quilts. The curtains are heavy and thick, and the room is dark and warm, smells right, like pack and safety. There are some days he doesn’t want to leave. Some days he privately refers to the room as a den, and just wants to sink his teeth into a deer, drag it in and curl up, belly sated. Cora’s surprisingly tolerant those days, sits and strokes his hair, lets him rest his head in her lap and eat raw meat. She makes him use a plate, though. It’s not fair.

The best days are the days when he just stops and listens to the tiny life growing, whispers to his belly about everything he hopes his cub will grow into, about sharp claws and ripping teeth, fierce and strong in the moonlight, fast enough to bring down a deer, strong enough to drag it back home, hungry enough to eat it. He’s making a child, his own body, which he’s used to kill, to injure, to seduce, is making something new and wonderful. He can’t quite believe it’s happening, can’t wait to see what his cub looks like, to show his own, his blood, how the world is, to protect it with everything he has.

The pack comes to him. He’s…he doesn’t quite know what he is to them. He knows that Erica and Boyd sleep either side of him whenever they can, that Isaac will probably never stop looking conflicted when he praises him. Scott’s an entirely different issue. Something about the scent Derek’s giving off has set off every single paternal instinct Scott has, and his behaviour’s veering wildly between reading parenting books and killing woodland animals and leaving them in the porch. He’s taken to patrolling the woods, and, on a few memorable occasions, sleeping right outside Derek’s door. In a slightly skewed way, they’re an alpha pair, and their combined presence does more to ease the pack’s tension than any amount of heartfelt discussion. Stiles thinks it’s hilarious, laughs until Derek pushes him off the bed when he sees how the betas’ eyes close and they go limp and pliant when he and Scott are in the same room.

It doesn’t stop Stiles from joining them in the den when they sleep together. He usually stays out of the main huddle, sitting in the armchair with his laptop, doing fifteen things at once, but he’s there, and he’s calmer when the rest of the pack’s around, for all of their shared history and complicated intertwining. On days when he’s running on air, when the shadows under his eyes look like bruises, Scott drags him onto the bed, ignoring his protests as they all weigh him down with heavy limbs and wrap around him until he’s still and restful. He sleeps in Derek’s bed on occasion when the pack isn’t there, sometimes in the middle of the day, sometimes five in the morning, nails bitten down to the quick, cuticles bloody and ragged.

 Beacon Hills is still contested territory, but Stiles and Scott don’t talk about it in his hearing. Derek hunkers down in his rebuilt house and jealously guards the small collection of cells that’s growing inside him, or else he’d be out there, ripping out throats and bleeding for his land, his home. The first few weeks, he fights with the pack, with a ferocity that comes of having so much to lose. It feels so good, so right, to be protecting with his teeth and claws, to be with a pack that’s sort of his and a tie to the land as deep as the roots of a tree.

Then, an omega starts prowling on the outskirts of his territory. Kills two joggers, and really, they should make it mandatory to use treadmills here, not the woods. He’s all for fighting, knows beyond a doubt that he’ll win, even if it takes a little blood. They’re at Stiles’s house with a map on the table. The sheriff’s in his shirtsleeves, looking over the territory with Stiles, their heads bent together, using a shorthand of gestures and half sentences. Scott’s been shooting glances his way all night. Derek waits for him to come over; he doesn’t enjoy making thing things difficult for Scott, but…he’ll come over when he’s worked out the right way to say whatever it is he wants to. He leans back on the couch, tangles his fingers in Erica’s hair as she shifts at his feet, then combs through more gently, working out the snarls and snags patiently. Stiles has been sidetracked and is explaining to his dad how a trebuchet was used in chemical warfare before guns were even invented, but he knows they’ve worked out as much as they can about the omega’s travelling patterns, given how unhinged it seems from the way the bodies were left.

It takes another half hour, but eventually Scott comes and sits next to him on the couch. “Can werewolves smell when someone’s pregnant?” he asks, voice tentative, and Derek knows where this is going.

“Yes,” he admits, then looks down at his stomach. He’s not really showing yet, even if he has been throwing up most mornings. Scott puts a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re lucky nothing’s happened to you yet, that there hasn’t been anything too bad here. But…I’ll respect your choice, whichever way you decide.”

He knows Scott will, but it’ll make him unable to concentrate properly on the fight, too busy worrying about him. When he has his own kids, Scott’s going to be the most protective father a child could wish for. He focuses inwards again, just to feel it moving, the tiny signs of life, the shifting and changes in his body. He clears his throat. “I’ll be sitting this one out,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the group to hear, even if the words sit oddly on his tongue. Stiles stops mid hand gesture, blinks, then nods, eyes flicking to Derek’s stomach. He almost wants someone to make a comment, to give a voice to the two warring instincts of an alpha with a territory to uphold and a mother with a cub to protect. No one does, and he hunches in on himself a little. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the meeting.

Stiles sits out of the fight next full moon, too, winds him up by calling him every few minutes and making him pick between disconnected fictional characters based on who would be the best at randomly chosen professions. He gets Derek to the point of death threats, makes him shred one of the cushions on his bed and then cries laughing when Derek tells him he just swallowed a mouthful of feathers. In his own odd way, he thinks Stiles was being helpful. Not that Stiles would admit it outright. Scott comes by at four in the morning, bloodied but grinning. “Allison shot the omega,” he says as if she’d just proposed marriage. “Then Erica and Boyd killed him. He…wasn’t a very nice person,” he adds with a frown. Derek doesn’t roll his eyes. “He smelled you. Kept talking about you.”

“C’mon, come and have a shower. I’ll make breakfast,” he says, and it’s as close to ‘you were right’ or ‘thank you’ as he’s going to get.

The morning sickness stops, not that it had been that bad to start with. He feels better, more energetic, goes running through the forest slashing marks on the trees, keeps better track of who and what’s been there. There are old scents, scents of other predators, other, stranger creatures than werewolves. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get the full account of everything the pack faced in his absence, only the things that Stiles can turn into horrifying but oddly hilarious anecdotes. It was bad, though.

He gets an itching under his skin as summer turns to fall. It’s like he’s going through puberty again, getting aroused at the slightest thing, wet dreams plaguing him. He ignores it for a few weeks, knows it’s getting worse, but keeps hoping it’ll maybe pass. It doesn’t. He wakes up one morning and the itch is too much to ignore. He spends half the day humping his pillow, hand tight on his dick, fucking into the clasp of his palm, slick with lube. One orgasm isn’t enough, the rolling need just seeping back into his bones as he pants into the mattress. He jerks off until his dick’s sore, until his balls are empty and he’s barely shooting any spunk and he’s sobbing each sputtering time. He wants to cry when he realizes it’s only midday.

He uncaps the lube again, gets a few more supplies from the bag at the bottom of his closet and faces the bed, jaw clenched. Desperate measures.

A few hours later, Stiles and Scott let themselves into the house. He’s too tired to get up, even when Scott squawks and pretty much runs out of the house without explaining to Stiles what the matter is. “Hey, so I think you broke Scott,” Stiles says as he climbs the stairs. Derek can’t summon up the energy to answer. This all feels like a slow motion car crash. He’s getting hard again. Fuck.

Stiles opens the door, makes an odd squeaking sound and shuts it behind him. “I’m closing my eyes now. Jesus, Derek, even I can smell that. What are you—just—Jesus. How have you not worn your dick out?”

He can’t help it, he laughs. It’s almost a sob. “I think I have,” he says, muffled into his pillow. “It’s normal for werewolves to be…to want, at this stage.” He feels lost, drifting, untethered. Stiles comes closer, sits gingerly on a dry patch of mattress, puts a hand on his shoulder. He can’t help it, he leans into it, desperate. “God, Derek, I…can I help?”

“More skin contact helps.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’m just gonna get you some water. You need water. I’ll be right back.” He takes the stairs two at a time, sprints back with two glasses of water, a straw, and a soaking wet shirt. “Yeah, taps. Who knew?” Stiles holds the straw to his mouth. “There, easy now,” he murmurs. “Little sips.” When half the glass is gone, he puts it with the other on the nightstand. “I’m taking my clothes off now. Don’t get weird. Man, I wish I had one of those dick holders, like actors wear in sex scenes to stop awkward boner contact.” He doesn’t ask.

The bed dips and Stiles sprawls over Derek, chest cool and a little damp against Derek’s hot, sweaty back, boxers dry on the mess of lube and come on his ass. He’s whimpering, a little. Stiles weaves their legs together, long toes tickling the arches of Derek’s feet. He runs his hands down Derek’s sides, along his arms. “Ssh, it’s okay, I’m here, I’ve got you. Now, what do you need?”

He just says “you” and hopes it’ll be the right answer. He can feel the jolt in Stiles’s pulse, smells a sharp increase in his constant, low level arousal.

“Fuck. Yes. I mean, yeah, you sure?”

He nods. “Yes. I’m sure. Please. Lube’s…somewhere on the bed. I think there’s some left.”

Stiles clambers over him, sifts through the pile of discarded sex toys, fingers tantalizing around the slick rubber. “Quite a range you’ve got here,” he says, ducking his head to meet Derek’s eyes. “I could use one on you, see how you look taking it.” The front of his boxers is wet with a mix of lube and precome. He’s bright eyed and eager and God, his fucking _fingers._ His hips start moving of their own accord and he clenches his ass with every forward thrust. Stiles finally finds the lube under one of his spunk covered pillows, smears some of it on his fingers. It’s been clawed open, so slick’s oozing out of the sides of the tube. He puts an unnecessary amount on, considering how much his ass has taken in the past few hours.

“Hurry the fuck up and take your boxers off before I shred them.”

“My sexual identity is built on death threats thanks to you,” Stiles gripes, shimmying out of his boxers, dick springing free. “Right, stay still. Stop fucking the mattress.” Derek stills, frowns at his reaction to Stiles’s command. “Good. You’re good.” He kneels next to Derek, facing him, puts one hand on his shoulder, thumb stroking the skin. His other hand sweeps down Derek’s back to his ass, a finger trailing down the cleft to his hole. He traces around it, dips in with the tip of one finger. “You’re so wet,” he breathes, circles again. This time it’s his thumb pressing in, the rest of his fingers going down to stroke his taint.

He spreads his legs, eyes sliding shut. Stiles is just…feeling around inside him, playing with his ass without purpose, like he has all the time in the world. He’s not even trying to find his prostate, just touching, sliding in and out until Derek feels loose and easy and drugged. He skips from one finger to three bunched tight, a steady strong press in and all Derek can do is take, and take. He comes between breaths, a slow slip into orgasm.

“Jesus. God, you’re so beautiful,” Stiles whispers. “I felt that, all through your body.” He keeps his fingers still in Derek’s ass as he comes down. “D’you think you can come again? With my dick in you?”

“Romantic,” Derek mutters, the clouds fogging his brain clearing a bit. “And yeah. Fuck me. I think…two more orgasms and I’ll be done. Just don’t expect me to move.”

“Two.”

“Yeah. Maybe three?”

“Three. Well, I’ll die happy, for a good cause, in a great ass.”

“Giving the D,” Derek says, resting his head on his folded arms. He knows Stiles is grinning as he straddles him, somehow keeping his fingers in Derek’s ass as his weight settles on the mattress. When he does take out his fingers, Derek can feel how loose he is, how ready. He’ll tighten back faster than a human, but for now, he yields easily to the slide and press of Stiles’s dick as he pushes smoothly in, leans forward and slumps so his mouth’s on Derek’s neck, breathing hot and wet onto his skin. He’d expected Stiles to be jackrabbit fast, eager, but instead he’s making rolling motions with his hips, dick as far in to Derek as it’ll go. He’s running his hands up and down Derek’s bent arms, sometimes reaching down to grasp his hands, to push down against him, feet digging into the mattress. His movements are sliding Derek’s dick along the bed again, just a slow back and forth that almost chafes, but the slick bed sheets stop it from being painful.

“I think you’re gonna have to take the bed out for dinner,” Stiles pants into his ear, “it smells so much like you, covered all over in you, in all your spunk, your sweat,” and really, Stiles’s weird fucking dirty talk shouldn’t be doing anything for Derek but the part of him that pisses on trees when no one is looking is driving his hips faster into the mattress, back against Stiles’s dick until Stiles is sobbing into his ear, just a warm weight pinning him down as he fucks himself on his dick. He bites down on his arm as he comes, drawing blood, Stiles following soon after, groaning like he’s been punched in the stomach. He can feel a bit of come trickle out of him down his thighs, licks the blood off his arm and shifts his hips a little, just to hear Stiles whimper.

“Put me back in the ring, coach,” Stiles groans. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll be good to go. Just…don’t move.”

“Huh?”

“Teenager. Refractory period. You said you wanted two, maybe three orgasms. I’m just having a disco nap and I’ll be right with you.”

“What the fuck is a disco nap.”

Stiles just makes a little humming noise, petting Derek’s arms absent-mindedly. “Maybe next time you can fuck me. I mean, I’m assuming I can’t get knocked up; I’m sure my ankles would swell and I’d get spots, so no assbabies for me, but yeah, you fucking me. I’d like that. Hey, do you find me attractive?”

He’s too old for this shit. “Your dick’s in my ass. What do you think?”

Stiles actually does a victory dance, which feels…odd. He’s getting hard again, and can feel Stiles’s dick plumping up again in his ass, smell his renewed interest. “Right, so, can you get up on your knees? Ass up? Wanna get my hands on your dick, give you a courtesy reach-around.”

Romance isn’t dead. Derek shifts, taking Stiles’s weight as he pushes up and moves his knees at the same time, Stiles slipping out with a yelp as Derek works out the kinks in his spine, flexes his feet and stretches, the sweet ache making him groan. Stiles leans over to the nightstand, gets the water again. Derek drinks it obediently when Stiles offers it, finishes the glass. Stiles somehow manages to find the spot behind his ear that makes him want to roll over when it’s scratched, long clever fingers digging in until he’s completely hard and wanting, dick brushing up against his belly. His fingers skitter across his nipples, down his sides, cup his balls, completely ignoring his dick. It feels like there’s no aim to this, like when Stiles was opening him up with his fingers. No way of anticipating what’s going to happen, because Stiles isn’t predictable and never will be.

He doesn’t use any more lube, gathers up some of his spunk from where it’s been sliding down Derek’s thighs, slicks it onto his dick then, with a steadying hand on Derek’s hip he pushes in, slowly like before, making these little whimpers as he holds back. “Still with me? You keep losing focus.”

“Yeah, still with you. I just…conflicting urges. I’ve got it under control, but you, on top of me.”

“Your mind’s telling you no, but your body’s telling you yes?”

“You just. You didn’t. Why, Stiles?”

Stiles doesn’t reply, just hums a few bars, snickers quietly, goes back to the spot behind his ear with his fingers until Derek’s lost track of why he’s horrified. He’s oddly…good at fucking. Not practiced, but eager and curious, experimental. He touches the weirdest places, strokes the dip over Derek’s cupid’s bow with a forefinger, traces the inside of his ear until it tickles, digs his fingers into the backs of Derek’s knees until it’s nearly painful, then traces his leg muscles up to his ass with long, deep strokes. He doesn’t touch Derek’s dick, and only hits his prostate every few strokes, sometimes just nudging it, sometimes gliding along it until it’s almost too much.

After a few minutes of random touches, Stiles’s attention turns to his nipples, fingers brushing them, tweaking them, never to the point of pain but enough to make them tingle, tighten. He wets his finger and traces them, calluses skittering over the crinkled folds, catching on the hairs around them. “These are gonna get full of milk, aren’t they? They’re getting ready already, soon you’ll feel them change, get bigger. Your cub’ll feed from them, suckle from you. Milk’s gonna leak from you, make your shirts all wet, you’ll have so much it’ll spill from your tits,” and all the time he’s caressing Derek’s chest, pressing and squeezing until it feels like he’s milking Derek, trying to feed from him and it’s enough to make him come without his dick being touched, just the thought of Stiles’s mouth latched onto his nipple, of providing for him, nursing him like a cub.

This time, Stiles doesn’t come with Derek, just stills and waits for him to stop shaking “So hey, you still good for three?” he asks when Derek’s breathing’s slowed down. Derek nods, reaches back to grasp Stiles’s hand, to anchor himself. “I’ve got you, it’s okay. One more orgasm, then we’ll get you fed and you can sleep. Sound good?” Derek nods again. Stiles waits another minute, waits until the itch under Derek’s skin has him growling and his flingers clawing a little, then he stops holding back, moves just as fast as Derek expected him to the first time, one hand on Derek’s hip, the other, finally, on his dick, making a fist for Derek to fuck into. It’s messy and graceless, not enough of a rhythm really, and he can’t quite coordinate between his hand and his dick.

“Please,” Derek gasps and he’s not really sure what he’s asking for, just that he needs, he needs because his skin feels a few sizes too small and his room smells of rut and sweat, and his body’s caught forever between attacking and defending. “Please,” and Stiles shushes him, drops a kiss on his shoulderblade. He lets his head drop down, tired and restless, pushes back against Stiles’s thrusts. Stiles stills, and he snarls again, tries to get himself under control when he hears his sheets ripping, but it’s okay, because Stiles chooses that moment to slide his finger in next to his dick, feeling the space he’s made inside Derek, pulls a little against his rim as he starts moving again, hand fast and steady as he settles into a steady pattern. Derek stays hovering on the edge of orgasm for what feels like hours; it’s only when Stiles starts slipping another finger into his ass that he comes with a near-howl, feeling like he’s been punched, like he’s turning inside out, because Stiles keeps fucking him through his orgasm, comes with a thrust that knocks Derek off balance. They roll onto their sides, Stiles wincing as he slips out of Derek’s ass. Neither of them speak for a while.

“Wow. You okay there, big guy?”

Now that the last of his need has been slaked, he becomes aware of all the other sensations that had been crowded out. He badly needs to piss, for a start, and he’s starving hungry. He’s also too tired to move. “Ugh,” is all he can say. Stiles turns so he’s facing Derek, knee crooked up, head pillowed on his hand. He’s stiller than usual, brain a little slowed. His smile is soft, not like the obnoxious deflecting grin he uses in public. Derek smiles back, reaches out and meshes their fingers together.

“Man, you need to shower. Like, you’re crusted. It’s flaking off you. I have literally never seen so much come on one person, and I’ve seen a lot of weird porn.” Derek doesn’t know quite how to respond, so he doesn’t, just lets his eyes slide shut. “C’mon, up and at ‘em. Or I’ll tell everyone you humped their pillows because they smelt of them.” Derek keeps ignoring him as Stiles sits up, hands him the full glass of water from the nightstand. This time, he lets Derek finish the glass, then tugs at his limp arm until he stands, herds him to the bathroom and shuts him in. Derek supports himself with one hand on the wall behind the cistern as he pisses, not trusting his legs to support him, then stumbles into the shower. The shower’s one of the few things that might stop him from killing Peter too much, because it’s got just the right amount of pressure, enough space to wolf out in if he needs to. It also has a thick leather strap attached to a bar off the ceiling, the purpose of which Derek avoids thinking too carefully about, but it’s useful now, as he hangs off it one armed, swaying gently in the water. Come, lube, sweat and tears all slip down the drain as he stands under the punishing spray, gradually regaining his faculties.

The smell of cooking meat eventually rouses him enough to leave the shower, grab a pair of sweats and a vest from the drier and pad downstairs. Stiles has lit candles. He didn’t even know he had candles. He’s also wearing one of Derek’s henleys, which has slipped a little to expose the top of his shoulder, he’s barefoot, and he’s cooking steak. “Are you wooing me.”

“Is it working? Plan B is a mix CD,” Stiles replies without turning round. With an odd lurch in his chest, he realizes that he knows exactly which tracks will be on the CD, could probably predict the order in which will they appear and explain at least a bit of Stiles’s reasoning behind each.

“I think it’s worked. Huh.” He takes a moment to examine the warmth blooming in his heart, smiles a little. “Yeah. It has.”

It’s two weeks before Derek gets the feeling of pervasive need again. Stiles picks up on the second ring, listens to Derek panting, unable to get the words out. “Is this a booty call?”

Derek growls. Stiles gulps, moans. “Yeah. Stick it in me,” he breathes. “I’ll get the lube, see you in five. Party’s in my ass, you’re invited.”

Derek lets his head drop back onto Stiles’s pillowcase. Romantic. So fucking romantic.


End file.
